Strange & Beautiful
by holographic
Summary: He wonders if it meant anything at all, and can only conclude that yes: once, it meant the world. But the meaning of that is lost now. // yamamoto-centric. EDITED.


**Strange & Beautiful ( I'll put a Spell on You ) .**

. . .**  
**

. . .

He tries not to think about it – _about her_ – too much, but the thought of her pops up every once and awhile.

He might think of her while he's sitting at his desk at work and notices the picture of him and her and her siblings when they were all younger, while he's buying a coffee and sees what she always used to order, walks through the shops in town and sees the shade of green that dyed her constant headband.

It might be when he smells the old books everywhere, and looks at the old pictures – letters he's wanted to send, and ones that aren't there anymore, because they _were_ sent, and letters he's received back, small presents he's gotten as his birthdays pass, and pictures of her brother and her sister as they age slowly, photo to photo.

Mostly , it's when he sees the snapshot of _her_ that her sister managed to catch, and the message scrawled in a ten year old's messy hand writing – _Look, hasn't Alphie gotten so pretty? You should come visit us soon, big brother. We miss you. Big sister misses you too._

. . .

There had never been a story more woeful than his.

( Well, actually, there had been, somewhere –

but those are not his stories to tell :

he doesn't know all the words, you see.

He doesn't know the right way to tell them. )

There had never been anything more painful than parting, watching her eyes paint the window sad and lonely. It had never cut so deep before, and nothing had ever pained him like that. He took his eyes from the window, and the airport faded from view as the plane took off to his now-home.

_C'est la vie – viva Italia._

( And yet, that's a lie, too :

there were many more things that _pained_ him,

but maybe that really had been the worst.

But then, maybe it had been the easiest thing in the world

to leave her behind. )

_. . . _

He had done well for himself, after the move. He had connections, he had friends, he had talent and he had intelligence.

He had moved for work. A successful company in Italy had offered him a position after school, something he couldn't refuse. Of course, a school friend of his was now in charge of it, which could have been a reason for him being invited. He was sure his friend was nervous, taking over the family line, so to speak.

He worked diligently, to be sure, and he never complained; he did everything he was told to with a smile. He didn't have any trouble with moving up.

No, he had a problem with moving _on_. Everyone had realized it was impossible for someone like him.

( But, was it really? Or was it just because it was _her_ ? )

. . .

He had never wanted anything more than the rolling green hills of the Tuscany countryside. He told himself this when he moved to Italy on his own when he was eighteen and left her behind – _three years of a broken heart_.

( But then, he was still lying if he said that. Because,

when he was little, he had said the same thing about

that little town they used to live in. Of course,

he can't ever go back there now. He's stuck—

Here.

_C'est la vie – viva Italia. _(Such is life – long life Italy.)

. . .

She was as warm as ever when he went to see her again. He had sent her letters to keep in touch even after the fact –

– the fact being : she dumped him –

– because, obviously, letters were more romantic than emails.

Don't get him wrong, it wasn't that he was trying to win her back. He wasn't. He hoped she was happy with her normal – _boring_ – new boyfriend, who was nice (enough) and who was stable – _rich_. She loved him.

( She had security that _he_ couldn't have given her. )

There was no way he could interrupt her life.

( Biggest lie he'd ever told.

The truth was that he had never intended on loving anyone but her.

He would settle for nothing but blonde

– _gold_ –

hair,

and light green

– _bottle green and molten gold _–

eyes. )

. . .

He had never needed to be serious until he met her. She brought out something in him, all the way back then. After that moment when she smiled at him in the fall, he knew she would be the only one.

( It was still like that, six years later.

Twenty one years old & his heart was lying somewhere

that he still didn't recognize,

even though it had been six years

since she had broken it and left it there,

to sink into the tears he knew she had shed. )

He could stand on the cliff-edge of the countryside, now, six years later and wonder. The Mediterranean Sea mist would blow into his face and he could taste salt and feel moisture like sweat beading across his skin. _If I had done things differently – if she hadn't said good-bye – if I could have been better – _

But it hadn't been all him. He had always known that. It takes two to waltz, and it takes two to fall in love.

. . .

Maybe it was better for both of them this way. She could live happy as a nurse, giving her warmth to people in hospitals, who needed it, loving someone who wasn't him and having the beautiful family he had always known she wanted, and everything else she had ever wanted: to have the resources to support them all; the money to give her family everything she had never gotten to have – a husband who could help her provide.

It was only natural for someone like her to want stability. It was only natural – _heartbreaking_ – for her to want someone who could provide that. He understood that. And yet.

Loving her was the most natural thing in the world, for him. It was the only thing he couldn't be abnormal in.

( And that, in itself, _made _it an abnormality. )

. . .

_To me, you're strange and you're beautiful –_

There were so many possibilities. He could look back at the years they had known each other, and mull over the things they had done, pick everything apart with a scalpel, and still not understand how he had come to love her like he did now. It was, and most likely would forever be, a mystery – but he would have liked to understand, just a little, what it was that started it.

Was it her hair, the headband she always had, her bangs falling in her eyes, the smell of old books and home cooking? Was it the color of her eyes, and when her cheeks glowed from the cold, when her scarf was too big? Or was it her old-fashioned clothes that looked like they once belonged to her mom? Her hiding in the library, her clothes that never quite fit, her voice that was too soft for him to sometimes catch, her pulling away from him – but some of these were reasons for him to _hate_ her, not love her.

Maybe they really weren't so different. After all, love is only one chemical, one single ingredient, away from being hate. It's something the brain understands, that humans have denied subconsciously their entire existence. (At least, it was something _he _had always tried to ignore.)

He had tried to hate her, he could remember, but he couldn't do it. He came close – so, so close – but he had never been able to do it. It should have been easy to do, he had been sure, but her smile flitted into his mind, and the way she stumbled over her words, her reading glasses and the scars on her fingertips from chopping vegetables, the thin necklace she wore, and her too-thin, awkward swan neck.

Once, he had come close, and he was sure _this was it_, but then her voice called his name, crying, happy, flustered, angry, soft, and everything shattered – he found himself immersed in memories he didn't want to remember –_ the sound of her name – the feel of her coat – the touch of her gloves – _and everything else.

. . .

Love was never easy. No one had ever said that; it wasn't what he had expected. He had just wondered if she loved him, too.

( He had thought 'yes', but perhaps he was just being conceited. )

But maybe he _had_ thought that a love as strong as his could have been easy.

( Maybe that was just him being conceited as well. )

. . .

They had their first kiss early on in their relationship. He didn't remember the number of dates, or anything else like that.

He hadn't counted the seconds – _two million, three hundred forty seven thousand & fifty two, give or take some –_ that he had even known her.

( He didn't mean to count, in the beginning.

It was just something that had happened. )

It was funny, though. He didn't remember how or when. He just remembered leaning into her shocked face and touching his lips to hers.

It wasn't a perfect kiss – but it was good enough. He knew there had been something there from the way she tilted her head and closed her eyes.

Fall was cold that day, that was all he remembered. The leaves blew in freezing winds that left his lips chapped and his eyes watering. But they had laughed all throughout their date, leaving the downtown area after god-knows-he-didn't-remember-what, and walked through the park holding hands, as best as you _can_ hold hands while wearing mittens.

It was stupidly cold; their breaths frosted the insides of their scarves against their faces, rubbing their skin raw and scarlet.

Maybe that was why the touch of skin burned. Everything else was cold, frozen cold, and yet her lips were like hot cocoa. She tasted like apple cider, he thought, but she might have tasted like spring.

It was so, so, _stupidly_ cold; feelings even froze in their place, taking too long to reach the heart and the brain – or maybe it was just shock.

( He wouldn't know how to describe the taste of spring, now.

It was like flowers, dew, and life; like warmth and like love.

It was _her_. That was all he could remember.

It was just_ her_. )

. . .

The raindrops fell on sidewalks that steamed from the afternoon heat. He was in high school then, fourteen years old, and it was just minutes before he had first seen her – but he didn't meet her until a year later.

(He was almost surprised, looking back on this, that he could remember this certain incident.

But it was as if someone had taken the saturation of this one memory,

turned it up high, and made everything wonderfully neon and bright.)

Walking down the sidewalk as it poured, he could hear the musical notes raindrops make when they hit the ground. It almost sounded like piano, he thought, and he continued without an umbrella.

He walked down the suburban streets, houses compact and close with each other lining the road and thought they all looked the same, to him. It usually did all look the same, though. Everyone and everything – it was the same. Essentially; everything fit in cookie cutter shapes, without even being cut in that shape. Everything was conforming.

Ahead of him, when he looked up, he saw an aquamarine umbrella, a blonde haired girl holding the hand of a boy with brown hair. They walked in front of him for a few blocks, before turning into a poorer neighborhood.

He stopped on the street corner, watched them continue on their way for a while.

The boy turned and saw him at some point; waved and smiled a gap-toothed grin. The girl looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met for just a second.

Like being hit in the stomach by a baseball during practice, just the metaphorical contact winded him. The umbrella glowed ridiculous shades of aqua and tints of jade and sky, and her headband was faded against that fierce color, almost like the color of the boy's eyes.

She had plain green eyes – _baby green & soft gold –_ and there didn't really seem to be anything (that wasn't) special about her. They stared at each other until pink blossomed on her cheeks and her eyes widened.

( _Did she feel the same way?_

He asked himself out of the blue,

but he pushed it away. )

Just in that moment, it was there, everywhere. He saw her as she turned away, pulling the cerulean eyes of the younger boy with her. They continued on their way, and he watched them, that ridiculously bright umbrella blocking their faces from view, until they turned the corner.

He shook his head and continued home. _Those sparks –_ There hadn't been anything there – _he could still feel it, electric and heavy – _but he hadn't actually felt anything. Nothing at all – _it had been so heavy and loaded, so full, and he couldn't breathe – _it had just been the rain, making the air hard to breathe from the summer heat.

( He ignored what all the signs pointed to.

He was fourteen years old & too young for love;

the world was large, and there were so many more people.

there were so many others_ – _

_there wasn't anyone but her. _)

_. . . _

When he saw her again at his baseball game, he felt it when he saw her walk over to him to catch her little brother.

Leaves blew out of trees that were splashed with color like children throwing paint on the walls, and her hair was blowing in the wind with her scarf. It was so cheesy, he wanted to laugh – _he wanted to cry, because it ached_.

Her brother was the one who started it all. Eleven years old and full of energy, blue-eyed, all grins, cheer and laughter. He's the one who introduced them, in a way.

( But he had known her his whole life,

he was so sure – and yet. )

Her little sister in her arms, she walked over to scold her little brother for running away from her and they saw each other. He knew she recognized him, and they looked at each other for such a long time, he ached again, somewhere in his chest.

She smiled at him, and he saw the scars lining her hands as she shook his, felt the fragile skin left over by burns. Her sister, no older than three or five, looked over her tiny, child shoulder at him, her orange hair flying wildly around her face, her bangs straight and harsh against pale skin and gray eyes.

"Anya, say hello," Alphie said softly to the younger one. Anya was quiet, but waved after a minute, and he felt like he had been accepted.

He noticed how they were all completely different from each other – _Alphie, Anya and Winter –_ and yet, they still had the same smile.

( Something in his head exploded,

and his mind told him that this was 'dying'.

Something in his chest expanded,

and everything else said that this was 'love'.

He thought that maybe they were the same thing. )

He wondered when it was that he really fell in love with her. It could have been a lot of things – stray hairs flying in front of her face because of the freezing wind, the way she held onto her sister so protectively, the delicate cuts lining her fingers, the light freckles dusting across her nose and cheeks, or the way she seemed to melt into the fireworks of fall, red, yellow-brown-gold, orange and the sleeping trees.

. . .

_Viva Italia._

He thought of how much she would have loved Italy. She would have loved the food and the people in the town he lived in. She would have fit in here. He remembered her new apartment back home, monochrome and cold, and wanted to hit something.

( It didn't suit her.

She was all golds and greens;

nature and warmth.

She always had been. )

She didn't belong with metal buildings and mirror windows. She belonged with the wind and the flowers, with her family. _She belonged with him _–

He decided to show her Italy. Someday, soon.

. . .

He wondered a lot if she had ever _actually_ loved him.

In his memories of them, they were young, and nothing mattered but the time they could spend together: the trips with her younger siblings to the aquarium and the zoo, walking through the park with her, going for ice cream, and window shopping downtown, laughing at the ridiculous outfits on display.

It didn't matter that she was poor, and would have to work to hold up her family; they didn't have to think, back then, on how she would wind up being the main source of income for the family for a long time, at least until her little brother could hold a job. They never talked about it; it didn't exist in their wonderful little world.

_Nothing_ mattered. Not even the fact that (somehow) they had always known.

_It can't last forever._

Then they got older – _time passed so fast; the rain, the autumn, high school and now. where did it all go? where –_ and they grew apart. But he told himself that it wasn't _them_, it was society that forced them apart; the need for money in a world growing increasingly dependent on it, and not the fact that they fell out of love – or, that she had. He had to tell himself that. In reality, he knew. She had let go of his hands, turned, and walked away.

( Maybe it would have been like a fairy tale,

beautiful and romantic, and he would have been Prince Charming.

But she wasn't a princess and he wasn't a prince.

This fairy tale would have no happy ending,

and maybe he had always known. )

_You can still be a fairy tale, _something in his mind taunted, _if you'd like,_ _but you will only have the tragedy._

. . .

_Her boyfriend proposed to her not too long ago_, Anya had written to him. _She hasn't given him an answer yet, so we don't know what's going on._

_Thanks for telling me that,_ he responded, and his hand was steady: a lie he was proud of.

His world turned to glass, and the minute his back touched the blanket, everything tumbled down. Shards hit the (non-existent) floor, and he was dimly aware of something warm on his face.

( _They aren't tears_, he lied to himself,

because he hadn't cried in years.

He wasn't going to cry over something like this. )

Glass made a beautiful sound when it broke, sometimes. He almost noticed it, just like he almost noticed the door opening, and someone yelling at him.

He didn't remember anything, much. He might remember a reflex, a masochistic urge he couldn't control in the haze of panic, and the shattering of a vase. He might remember grabbing the biggest piece of broken porcelain_ – he remembers carving his wrist like her fingertips – _might remember things that happened, but it was a blur of panic and rage.

There was just yelling. So much yelling that it hurt his ears and they shattered, too, until he couldn't hear anything at all.

"Oh my God," he might have heard someone shouting (but he didn't know, because his ears had shattered), "Oh my fucking God."

There was something warm all over now – _like tears, like blood _– until everything suddenly went cold.

He closed his eyes and someone screamed at him to open eyelids were heavier than he remembered – _everything, just like the air the first time he met her, it pressed down on him _– and he couldn't open them.

He fell into black and thought it might be nice to sleep.

. . .

He thought of her and he died. He remembered her and he died, because loving someone and dying was exactly the same thing.

( Or, almost exactly the same.

He knew now, that loving someone

was probably more painful than dying.

He just wished he could die faster. )

But no, he couldn't even die properly. He looked up at the ceiling of the hospital, wondered how he could have failed doing something so _easy_, and closed them again. He'd regain his senses while he was here, come out and forget about her, once and for all. This time for sure. After all, the three hundred, forty six thousandth, nine hundred twenty ninth time was the charm.

. . .

He knew he wasn't a Prince Charming, or the perfect guy; he wasn't rich, he wasn't always there, and he wasn't always going to be able to protect her from everything.

But he still could have been good enough for her, couldn't he?

He wonders. Maybe it was all hopeless from the start, but he remembers the way she called his name, waving at him as her scarf flopped in the frozen wind and her nose was turning red from cold, the way his name sounded on her voice as she smiled –

Wonders if it meant anything at all, and can only conclude that yes: once, it meant the world. (But the meaning of that is lost now.)

* * *

. . .

. . .

_Okay, well. This is the second draft, holy .. yeah. Well. If you find random numbers in here, then it's just page numbers. You can ignore them. .__.;_

_This story .. has taken so much out of me, but my god. I love it so much. So, I hope you can all give it a chance, and you might be able to expect it to be updated with two more parts, and maybe to be edited again. But it'll take a long time; this story took me at least a month for the first draft. Not to mention workshopping and all that, hahah._

_Well, if you read .. thank you very much. -bow- I really appreciate it. _

**manrii.**


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